Been There? Shrimp & Bayou Classics

There is that moment, that smooth and exquisite synchronicity of atmosphere, circumstances, and above all, of course, that food, when it all clicks into place and one realizes that, “Hey, you know what? This is pretty damned good. And doubtless will be in the future. But it probably won’t ever be this good, this perfect.”

It came for us recently, that moment, about the third spoonful of coffee-dark, shrimp studded gumbo.

At a roadside joint in southwest Missouri. Atmosphere. Circumstances. Food.

The circumstances first: we were lost. Not lost exactly. It was just that someone, well, no names here but how the hell do you tell someone a place is on Republic Road when it’s really on Battlefield Road? Do those two really sound alike? Like, when you tell someone the party’s in Cleveland this weekend but it’s really in Taos. Seriously? And so we’d driven a few miles on the wrong road, looking for Horrmann Meat Co. in Springfield, Missouri. When we passed a shack—and we do mean shack—with a sign out front advertising gumbo and shrimp. And kept going. And eventually stopped for directions and found our way to Horrmann.

Next time you’re in Springfield, take along a cooler and visit this fairly remarkable meat shop, which butchers its own hogs and cows and has in addition, the most extraordinary collection of meats for sale. If you need a whole pheasant, or goat shanks, or elk burger or kangaroo steaks, you’ll be pulling out the credit card. If you’ve always wanted to try to recreate Grandma’s famous braised llama chuck roast, Horrmann’s got you covered.

We were dazzled at the selection at Hormann’s and stood and watched the butcher fillet out a pork belly to make slabs of bacon thicker than the NSA’s dossier on Edward Snowden. We briefly considered the wisdom of buying a half pig—at $3.09 a pound—a special at the store. Rejected it since the deal didn’t include the head, jowls, and chitterlings. (“We can’t sell the head because we kill the pigs with a bullet and the FDA says that contaminates the meat with lead.” Which pretty much sums up the absurdity of the FDA. “And people around here don’t eat chitterlings.” Which pretty much sums up what Ozarkers are missing, porkwise.)

But we kept thinking about that sign, back on the wrong road. Lunch time approached. It wasn’t that far back. And there was that mention of gumbo.

That’s how we ended up at Shrimp & Bayou Classics, watching Chris Crow, the owner, through a screened window, as he stood in the kitchen and dredged chunks of catfish into a flour and meal breading.

“I went to LSU,” he said, “where I majored in Crawfish & Beer.” When he returned to his native Springfield, Crow couldn’t find the food he’d enjoyed in Louisiana—couldn’t even find the proper ingredients. He and a couple of friends decided to start their own eatery in order to get what they wanted. If you have eaten really good Louisiana Cajun and Creole food, this will not seem like an extreme step at all. “I found a trailer a guy had been using, bought it, and things got started.”

Once they “got started,” the business picked up momentum faster than bad decisions on a Vegas weekend. That leads to the atmosphere part of the equation. Bayou Classics has ah, “ambience.” Of the sort you’d find if you crossed a carnival funnel cake stand with a backyard picnic. A porch, where you order, is sheathed in plastic sheeting that flaps in the wind. The original trailer on wheels that forms the main part of the shack—we use that term in the nicest way—has gotten at least a couple of additions, including a screened gangway that leads to the kitchen, and a particle board-covered prep area in back. “We call it the ‘banquet center’” Crow says. “It holds four—unless two of ‘em are big boys.”

Seating is comprised of a couple of picnic tables out on the lawn and a few wooden spools. There is no valet parking. “What do you do in the winter?” we ask, when Crow tells us they stay open all year. “Tell customers to put on an extra layer,” he says.

On this absolutely perfect late September day, though, the sun is glorious. Leaves that are just balanced on the edge of change—and that plastic sheeting up front—are both rustled by a light, autumnal breeze. There are four star restaurants that, at this moment, cannot match the atmosphere.

And then there is the food. We do not have high expectations of Cajun/Creole fare outside Louisiana. Riverbend Restaurant & Bar, soon to relocate to the former Harvest, on Big Bend, was able to capture it at their old place near Soulard and we’re hoping they can make it work here. Still, the places that try and fail are far more numerous than those that get it.

Bayou Classics gets it. We tuck in to a sampler platter, beginning with the fried shrimp. Crow makes trips, twice a month, to Louisiana, where he loads up with hundreds of pounds of shrimp and brings them back for selling, in bulk, at the restaurant. At prices so low we can’t even tell you. “I just want to make enough to cover gas money,” he says. He’s also bringing back the ingredients for the menu. Almost all of them. “We can’t get what we want to sell anywhere else,” he says.

So that’s New Orleans Blue Plate Special mayonnaise smeared on the poor boys and mixed in the slaw. Camellia Red Beans in the red beans and rice. Zapp’s potato chips. Boudin sausage that was stuffed into casings so close to the French Quarter you can taste les bonne temps in every spicy bite.

The quality of the ingredients is obvious with the first taste of the shrimp. Plump, juicy with flavor, the beading light and crunchy, just enough to add a delicate crackle. Some of the best fried shrimp ever to find its way into our mouth. The same breading covers the catfish. With the same wonderful results. The gumbo has that richness of dark roux, that smoky undercurrent, that makes every spoon a joy. With shredded chicken, Andouille sausage, and shrimp and rice.

“You need to come back on Wednesday,” Mr. Crow says, coming out from the kitchen to hand us a flyer. “Boneless chicken stuffed with boudin and shrimp, jalapeno cornbread” he says. “Then smoked.” It’s his invention, inspired by the famous extravagance of turducken. “I asked about getting a franchise to sell turducken,” he explains. “’But they wanted $350,000 for it.”

Instead, Crow “watched some videos on YouTube,” and taught himself to bone a chicken. “Ate a lot of chicken salad,” he said, but he got the knack of it. He’s stuffing them with shrimp, boudin, “whatever I think might work,” then putting them in a smoker. The place also offers a quarter chicken, leg and thigh, stuffed the same way, then wrapped in bacon before hitting the smoker.

There’s more. Shrimp poor boys. Hot roast beef poor boys. Crawfish etouffee. Muffalettas. Boudin balls with dirty rice. Crow posts daily specials on the place’s Facebook page. So you can plan ahead if you’re making a visit to Springfield. It will be wonderful, trust us. But perfect as that sunny September afternoon? Not likely.

Shrimp & Bayou Classics 3245 W. Republic, Springfield, Missouri 417-818-1647

Horrmann Meat Co. 1537 W. Battlefield, Springfield, Missouri 417-886-6328